Ragnarok
by Ugly and boring
Summary: “It is within the power of each of us to love someone else, to embrace it in all its frightening splendour. It was, more likely, rather his inability to understand all this that became Tom Riddle’s ultimate downfall.” TR/HG, circa Half-Blood Prince.
1. Prologue

_**Prologue**_

--

Everywhere around her, it seemed that yelling and screaming filled the air, echoing off the stone walls of Hogwarts, assaulting her ears and making it impossible to think. All she heard was running feet, moans and helpless cries, and all she saw was death and destruction. Bright lights, green and blue and red lit up every room and no matter where you looked, spells were cast left and right.

She could feel her knees buckling, threatening to give out from under her. She had lost sight of everyone. The tangy smell of blood clawed at her nostrils, making her nauseous. She was so scared, so alone, and where were her friends? Where was Ron? Lupin? Tonks? Fred? George? Were they all right?

His massive voice boomed yet again just then, making her blood curdle and the hairs on the back of her neck stand up straight. She heard him call out for Harry Potter once more, demanding him, daring him, luring him to make his presence known. If something didn't happen soon, she knew it would only be a matter of time before he got his will. Harry had never been good at being patient.

It was now. The one card she had left to play.

Memories flashed before her eyes. Everything came together in the end, just like it had been predicted. The circle was waiting to be completed. Everything, all of it, had led her, had led _them_, to this exact moment and place in time. Dumbledore had known it. She knew it.

It was now.

Glancing down at the small scar on the side of her left hand, she slowly stepped out from where she had been hiding behind the pillar.

--


	2. Chapter One

_**Ragnarok**_

**Summary: "**It is within the power of each of us to love someone else, to embrace it in all its frightening splendour. It was, more likely, rather his inability to understand all this that became Tom Riddle's ultimate downfall." TR/HG, circa Half-Blood Prince.

**Disclaimer: **I am not J.K. Rowling, nor am I in any way associated with her. I own nothing.

--

"_I have pushed the boundaries of magic further, perhaps, than they have ever been pushed."_

"_Of some kinds of magic," Dumbledore corrected him quietly. "Of some. Of others, you remain…forgive me…woefully ignorant."_

_For the first time Voldemort smiled. It was a taut leer, an evil thing, more threatening than a look of rage. "The old argument," he said softly. "But nothing I have seen in this world has supported your famous pronouncements that love is more powerful than my kind of magic, Dumbledore."_

"_Perhaps you have been looking in the wrong places," suggested Dumbledore._

- The Half-Blood Prince

--

"_Avis._"

Fluorescent golden light cascaded out from the tip of her wand, branching out, swirling and looping through the air. It divided, dissolving into tiny specks, only to burst forth again as a tiny flock of cheeping canaries that instantly took to circling around her head. Their cheery twittering, however, did nothing to improve her mood as she had hoped it would.

The smell of chalk and mould made her nose itch. It was draughty in here, too, she noted, as a particularly forceful gust of wind howled against the window pane and made a thick layer of dust covering the desk she sat on stir slightly. Obviously, this classroom hadn't been used for awhile; then again, considering the infinite number of rooms held within the enormous castle to choose from, she was hardly surprised.

Shivering a bit, she huffed weakly.

Who cared about that dumb, insensitive buffoon anyway?

Twirling her wand between her fingers in silent anger, she lifted her head. "I certainly _don't!_" she announced in a loud, defiant voice to the perfectly empty room. Of course, there was no answer, just the incessant twirping of the canaries still fluttering purposelessly around her head, and she felt even more foolish than before. This was so silly, so insufferably _girlish_ of her.

Hermione Granger fancied herself many things, but girlish was certainly not one of them.

Sighing, she studied her hands still fiddling idly with her wand. Oh, well. What grownup, muggle or wizard alike, could honestly say that they had escaped their teenage years without ever doing something positively ridiculous? After all, rarely anyone went through adolescence without suffering at least a small amount of the emotional damage that followed in the wake of unrequited affection and heartache.

But she just never expected hers to be inflicted by Ronald Weasley, her best _friend_, of all people. He wasn't even handsome, for Merlin's sake! He was tall, and goofy, and red-haired and freckled. He had a long nose, his feet were big. He was lanky, awkward in his movements, and so ridiculously clumsy. He was emotionally immature, outrageously stubborn and pigheaded and _stupid_ and—

He was _Ron_.

Dismayed, she looked down to see wet stains on the fabric of her pants, steadily growing in circumference. Snivelling, and irritated with herself for doing so, she aggressively wiped her damp cheeks with the back of her hand. She could feel her nose running.

She had felt so awfully lonely this year. Nothing had been like it used to be; the growing shadow of Voldemort and the promise of dark times ahead was constantly looming over their heads like a thunderstorm waiting to break loose. She and Ron had been bickering non-stop, taking turns at biting each other's heads off, and Harry…well, Harry had hardly been the same, either. He was more introvert now, more secretive. He rarely smiled or laughed. He hadn't for some time, not since they had gone back to school.

Not since Sirius had died.

She wouldn't dream of blaming Harry anything, though. By rights, no one ought to go through the things he had gone through, the things he had seen and done. To lose what he had lost, and still keeping as sane as he had. But still, she couldn't help but long for times where life had been, if not simpler, then at least more bearable. If nothing else she'd had her friends with her then, and despite Voldemort returning, despite Cedric Diggory dying, despite Sirius, despite all the evil and the bad things that had happened these past years, at the end of the day there had, more often than not, been greater reason to be happy than to be sad.

Perhaps it would have been better if she had never been presented with these stupid feelings in the first place. Then maybe things could have gone back to something resembling normal again and then maybe, she and Ron wouldn't be fighting so much. Maybe then one of these days Harry would smile again.

"_Finite Incantatem_," she mumbled, having finally had enough of the tiny birds in noisily circled flight about her ears, not to mention their intolerable singing. With a nearly inaudible poof, they disappeared, leaving a couple of lonely yellow feathers fluttering unceremoniously to the floor as the only trace of their short existence.

"Very impressive, Miss Granger, very impressive indeed. Although I must say, I much prefer hummingbirds myself. They are a bit less…boisterous, so to speak."

Slightly startled, she turned around and quickly slid down from the desk, her free hand flying up to her face to remove any remaining tell tales of her crying. If Professor Dumbledore had noticed her uneasiness, though, he showed no sign of it. A small, inscrutable smile half-hidden beneath his massive white beard was all he offered as he stepped all the way through the door, closing it behind him with his left hand. His right, she noticed, for some odd reason was hidden from sight beneath his purple robes. A heavy, swamp-green travelling cloak speckled with small gold stars hung from his aging, crooked shoulders.

"Professor Dumbledore, sir," she greeted him, making a flustered attempt at smoothening out her slightly wrinkled clothes. "I didn't realize that you had returned."

"Only just," he replied, his gaze friendly and warm as always. Pausing slightly, he looked bemused. "You've taken notice of my absence, have you, Miss Granger?"

"Yes, I have-- we'll, _we_ have. The three of us."

Dumbledore chuckled lightly. "I suppose it would be foolish of me to pretend to be surprised."

Hermione was so taken aback by his sudden appearance that she was literally faltering. It was so unusual for her to be conversing privately with her headmaster like this, most often he would direct his attention to Harry rather than to her or Ron. Not counting when she had applied for permission to make use of a Time Turner in her third year, the number of times he'd addressed her personally since she had first begun attending school could easily be counted on one hand. She had no idea what to say.

Instead, she resorted to simply watch as he walked slowly towards where she stood, lightly surveying his surroundings as he did. He seemed strangely aimless in his presence, like being here, in an empty class room with a student on a cold December's eve for no apparent reason other than a desire to casually converse was something habitual for the head of Hogwarts. However, she knew enough about Albus Dumbledore to know that he rarely ever did anything without having a good reason, and she found herself speculating like crazy.

Why was he here?

"Say, Miss Granger," he then proceeded, his expression as always inexplicably knowing, "isn't this too nice a night to be spending it alone in a chilly class room? I understand that there is some merry to-do in the Gryffindor common room. I would surely have expected you to be in attendance?"

"I was. I mean, I _am_," she corrected herself, clumsily searching for the right words. "It was just very hot, that's all, and I needed to…cool off."

"I see."

It was quite possibly the most blatantly transparent lie Hermione had ever told in her life. It would take nothing short of an idiot to miss the tear streaks on her flushed face or her ineloquent fumbling for the proper thing to say, and idiocy was hardly a concept that Dumbledore was very familiar with. However, he surprised her once again by displaying no desire to expose her painfully obvious untruthfulness, and her befuddlement grew as he took place beside her, resting against the same desk that she had been sitting on moments earlier.

Arranging his robes around him, he then smiled another one of his peculiar little smiles.

"There is no shame in being unhappy, Hermione. I hope you know that?"

The old wizard's uncanny ability to see right through the most finely crafted of masks rarely failed him. Looking into his intelligent eyes, she was amazed by the infinite wisdom they always held, and relieved when she found no disappointment or ridicule.

He understood.

Feeling the water begin to well up in her eyes again, she fought it desperatly and looked down at her shoes, unable to get an answer to his question past her lips.

"After all," Dumbledore continued, appearing to recognize her struggling, "unhappiness is one of the essential keys to our humanity. It makes us whole."

Hermione looked up at him again, her discomfort momentarily replaced by a vague sense of intrigue. "How so, sir?"

"Our ability to feel sad, to _hurt, _I believe is what enables us to relate to pain, to pity those who suffer because we recognize the suffering from ourselves. Imagine someone, Miss Granger, who has lived a whole life without misery, in perfect happiness, never knowing sorrow or fear. How could someone like that possibly be able to understand the agony that comes from being denied that which we desire the most?"

It made sense, and Hermione slowly nodded in agreement. "I think I understand that." Then she frowned. "But…"

He smiled. "But?"

"But if the troubles we have to go through in our lives are what enables us to sympathize, to feel empathy, and that which we aren't granted makes us whole…then why is that sometimes, those who experience a great deal of trouble are the ones who become the least sympathetic?"

It was one of those moments where two people are subjected to the curiosity of thinking of the exact same thing at the exact same time. Or, in this case, the exact same person. Hermione allowed the recollection of the eerie events in her second year to flood back into her mind. She hadn't even been privy to everything that had happened first-hand, and yet, the thought of Tom Riddle's destructive memory and how it had nearly cost Ginny her life back then still filled her with an inexplicable fear. Voldemort had been an orphan, an outcast, and by no means been granted an easy start to life at all. The thought sent a chill through her bones.

Dumbledore, however, looked at her appreciatively.

"That is a very good question. I gather that Harry has told you about what has been discovered during our little, shall we say 'private lessons' then?"

Hermione nodded, feeling her cheeks grow red, though her headmaster hardly seemed surprised.

"Perhaps not an entirely unwise decision on his part," he simply acknowledged with an odd glimmer in his eyes, studying Hermione intently. "For all that, who knows what is to come? Maybe not long from now, it will be vital for more than _one_ person to understand what kind of fury that is the driving energy behind everything that has happened."

Furrowing her brow at his words, once again she found herself missing an explanation as to why he was even here, talking to her about such things in the first place. But before she could think any further, Dumbledore pulled out a pocket watch attached to his robes by a chain and looked at it.

"Oh, dear," he mumbled, seemingly a bit put off by what he saw. "I am getting a bit ahead of myself, it seems. To answer your previous question, Miss Granger; if you recall, I only said that unhappiness is _one_ of the essential keys to our humanity. Can you perhaps guess which one is the other?"

She thought very hard about this for a moment, but couldn't think of an answer. She shook her head.

Dumbledore's clear, water-blue eyes seem to twinkle more brightly at her than they ever had before. "Love."

"Love?"

"Love has the ability like nothing else to change everything on the head of a pin. It makes us act like fools, makes us defy all reason, _or,_ makes us do the right thing just for the sake of doing it. Love makes great men fall to the depths of insanity, overthrows empires and conquers the hearts of kings as well as beggars. It is the love we feel in our hearts that, above everything, can make us want to be the very best we can be as human beings, or to risk everything, to go to atrocious lengths simply to reap its benefits, however sparse. It can save a life as easily as it can end it, and _has_ saved both that of Harry Potter as well as your own several times already. It is a force stronger than any magic in this world, dark or light."

"So…" Hermione deduced hesitantly, after allowing herself a moment to take in everything that he had said, "you are saying that Voldemort is who he is because of his inability to _love?_"

"I am saying," Dumbledore corrected her, "that love, whether by its brilliant presence or perfect absence, has played a crucial part in nearly every aspect of Voldemort's life. I will not deem him as having always been completely incapable of love, especially under the right circumstances. No one is born evil, Miss Granger, and despite everything, he was only human like the rest of us once, before he set out to become what he became. It is within the power of each of us to love someone else, to embrace it in all its frightening splendour. It was, more likely, rather his inability to understand all this that became Tom Riddle's ultimate downfall."

She found herself nodding yet again, truly feeling like she understood every word. But now, she simply couldn't contain her curiosity any longer.

"I beg your pardon, sir, but…why are you telling me all this?"

Dumbledore smiled softly, almost strangely regretful. "I suppose I wanted you to know that feeling for someone else, how ever agonizing it can now and then, is much more of a blessing than it is a curse. It can make all the difference. In _time,_ Hermione, I have complete faith that you will come to understand this."

Then, clasping his hands together, he suddenly stood.

"Well, I best be on my way then. I believe that our dear house elves have been instructed to leave a light evening snack ready for my return in my office. Mind you, I hope it's chicken." He took a few steps towards the door, then suddenly stopped and turned back to face her again.

"Oh!" he said, shaking his head at himself, "I nearly forgot to give you this. How silly of me."

Feeling her previous confusion return tenfold, Hermione observed in utter bewilderment how he reached into his left pocket and retrieved a black, shiny book of medium sizing, handing it to her. Taking it, she turned it in her hands. There was no title on the covers and flipping through it, she realized that the pages were completely blank. It looked like a notebook of some sort. Not knowing what to make of it, she looked back up at Dumbledore with a questioning look on her face.

"Sir?"

"It is merely a blank journal, and yet, it is so much more than that," he explained, like she was supposed to know what that meant. "At any rate, I expect that you will find good use for it soon enough. And now, I bid you a good night."

Hermione stared at the book, quite puzzled as Dumbledore resumed his path towards the door. In the last moment before it closed behind him, she remembered herself.

"Professor!"

He stuck his head back through the door, peering at her over the half-moon spectacles perched on his crooked nose. "Yes?"

Hermione smiled gratefully. "Thank you. For everything, I mean."

He returned her smile but one again, seemed oddly remorseful. "Don't thank me yet, Miss Granger. I think you''ll eventually find that there really is very little reason to."

Then he closed the door with a soft click, leaving her alone with her thoughts like she had been before his arrival. Standing rooted to the spot for a few minutes, she then returned her attention to the book she was holding. It was bound in sturdy leather, she noticed now, made to withstand the scars of time. It also struck her at second glance that it somehow seemed vaguely familiar. Had she seen it somewhere before? She flipped through it again, still finding nothing. She would soon find good use for it, that was what he had said.

Find use for it? Find use for it _how?_

She slowly lowered herself back down to the desk. By all means, she admired her headmaster immensely but sometimes, it would be nice to obtain a clear answer from him rather than being left to guess. It could be a bit unnerving. She then realized that his appearance, and the conversation that had followed had made her completely forget everything about Ron and Lavender Brown, and she slowly felt the anger return. Only, for some reason, it didn't seem quite as forceful as it had before. In a way, Dumbledore's words had been consoling to her.

A soft _pop_ and the swishing sound of robes hurriedly being dragged over a stone floor behind her back, however, instantly pulled her back out of her thoughts.

Thrown off guard, she quickly turned on the spot, still seated, her eyes roaming her surroundings suspiciously. But they were met by nothing but an empty class room. Everything looked like it had been before.

Strange.

"Hello?" she tried, surprised at how insecure her own voice sounded. "Is anyone there?"

No answer. Perhaps it was just Peeves playing tricks on her. She would have to remind herself to ask the Bloody Baron to reprimand him later. Maybe Harry could--

And that was the last thing Hermione ever remembered before somebody struck her hard to the back of her head with blunt object, and everything turned pitch black.

--


	3. Chapter Two

_**Ragnarok**_

**Summary: "**It is within the power of each of us to love someone else, to embrace it in all its frightening splendour. It was, more likely, rather his inability to understand all this that became Tom Riddle's ultimate downfall." TR/HG, circa Half-Blood Prince.

**Disclaimer: **I am not J.K. Rowling, nor am I in any way associated with her. I own nothing.

**Author's Note: **I am glad that this little drabble has been well received so far. I will try my best to update in orderly fashion but keep in mind that I work a full-time job, and that I am also currently in the process of moving to a new flat. Now, with that being said, enjoy this second chapter!

**Chapter Two**

--

The tickling sensation of a lonesome spider slowly wandering across the back of her hand was what first awoke her from black oblivion. Her eyelids stirred slightly before finally fluttering open, and immediately upon spying the offending insect, she shook it off with a slightly disgusted grunt and quickly sat up straight in mild alarm.

This proved to be a really bad idea. White-hot pain instantly exploded in millions upon millions of bright colours behind her eyes, momentarily blinding her and rendering her completely unable to do anything but grab her head in despair as she let out a strangled gasp. Clenching her teeth, she willed herself to ride it out, and what could only have been a matter of seconds felt like years, until the sharp aching slowly began to subside and allowed her to move again.

Gingerly, she reached to the back of her skull, her fingertips brushing across what felt like cakes of dried blood in her hair, and a swelling bump at the size of a minor continent. Wincing, she decided to leave it be for the time being, mostly because her brain was slowly, very slowly, starting to somewhat recuperate.

What on earth had happened?

The memory of a sudden blow sprang back into her mind. Somebody had snuck up on her and knocked her out good and proper. Who? And why?

Shakily, Hermione got to her feet and for the first time since regaining consciousness, she took notice of where she was while simultaneously trying to recall how she had ended up there in the first place. She was still in the same, empty class room, it seemed, except it was completely dark now. Instinctively glancing at her watch, she was dismayed to find that it had actually stopped working. She gently tried tapping at the glass surface but the hand remained frozen on a quarter past eight. Good grief, how long had she been out?

And, more importantly why had no one bothered to come look for her?

For a moment, she completely forgot everything around her in favour of a fit of tempestuous rage. Yes, why would anyone bother to come look for her? Obviously, everyone had better things to do than being concerned for her well-being and certainly, Ron would be far too preoccupied with snogging the living daylights out of Lavender Brown to even be _slightly_ disturbed about the fact, that she, Hermione Granger, his _best_ friend, had been brutally hit over the head and left completely passed out on the icy cold stone floor for what appeared more and more to have been _hours_ in an dusty, mouldy old class room and—

Her train of angry thoughts suddenly came to a temporary stop as her gaze fell on the big blackboard hanging upon the back wall. Frowning, she stared nonplussed at the very friendly reminder of Wednesday's Transfiguration homework that someone had spelled out across it in wonky chalk letters.

Why hadn't she noticed that earlier?

Increasingly perturbed, she also now observed how the desks and chairs seemed to have been arranged differently and wiped completely clean of dust and dirt. It wasn't as cold in here as before. The wind outside had stopped its relentless howling. In fact, everything seemed unusually quiet.

_Too_ quiet.

Hermione felt a horrible chill run down her spine and a growing sense of alarm began to take root in her stomach. Oh God, what if something really serious had happened? What if her mysterious assailant had actually been a Death Eater or worse? What if they had been surprised, all of them, the other students, her teachers? What if Hogwarts had been attacked? What if _Voldemort_ had—

No. That thought was simply all too terrifying to dwell on.

Anxiously shifting her weight from one foot to another, she felt the toe of her shoe push against something. Looking down, she realized it was the black journal that Dumbledore had given her, laying discarded on the floor where she herself had been sprawled out moments earlier. Bowing down to pick it up, she glanced it over one final time before tucking it into the back of her pants, hiding it under the hem of her shirt. Feeling for her wand, she was relieved when her fingers slid across the smooth wood. It was still in her back pocket.

Good. She would need it if she was to…defend herself.

And she couldn't very well stay hulled op in here for the rest of her life, could she?

Making an effort to move as stealthily as possible, she almost tip toed her way over to the closed door. Taking a deep breath, afraid of what she'd find on the other side of it, she nervously grabbed the handle and grimaced at the screeching hinges as she slowly pushed it open.

Peeking out into the abandoned corridor, Hermione was relieved to see that everything seemed completely normal. The torches on the walls were still flickering merrily as they lit up the otherwise dim hall; various paintings were slumbering peacefully in their respective frames. Nothing bore the slightest sign of anything unexpected or unpleasant having happened.

"Hello?" she attempted apprehensively, instantly annoyed at how timid that had sounded. "Harry?" she tried again, a little louder. "Ron? Professor Dumbledore?"

No answer.

"Anybody?"

But the only thing she heard in response was her own voice echoing back and forth against the walls until it slowly faded out. Somewhere in the castle, a grandfather clock struck ten. The moving staircases in the great hallway shifted position.

Hermione felt the knot in her stomach slowly beginning to return. This wasn't right. This wasn't right at all.

"Ronald Weasley, if this is supposed to be some kind of ill-conceived, idiotic prank of yours, it is really _not_ funny!"

Still no answer.

Fighting to keep calm and level headed, she set her feet into motion and they automatically carried her in direction of the Gryffindor common room entrance. All the while, millions of thoughts and scenarios sped through her brain with a hundred miles per hour, considering all reasonable explanations and trying to determine who could possibly have had anything to gain from sneaking up on her and rendering her unconscious. Maybe it had been Peeves, up to his usual mischief? Or perhaps Draco Malfoy and his goons? Heaven knew they'd had it in her for her in a while, and although she hadn't exactly expected to be downright _clobbered,_ she wouldn't put it past that slimy, no-good, foul Slytherin to pull something like this either. One thing was certain, though; if it really was him, she would not hesitate a second to hex his sorry existence to the bloody moon and back the next time she saw him.

She was already going over the meanest, most vicious revenge spells she knew in her head when her footsteps came to an abrupt halt. Although she could have sworn she had been following the exact same path back as she had gone before, oddly enough, she seemed to have made a wrong turn somewhere along the way. Because in the spot where she'd fully expected the portrait of the Fat Lady to be, was now a painting of a pretty sea nymph walking along a sandy beach instead, wading dreamily in the foamy white shallows.

Looking around, Hermione shook her head in mild confusion. But she _was_ in the Gryffindor tower; the windows facing east, overlooking the Forbidden Forest were right there where they'd always been. The staircase to her left led down the Great Hall and the corridor to her right would take her to a number of intricate passageways and ultimately, the library. But yet, it looked all together entirely different and she saw now that the Fat Lady wasn't the only picture that had been replaced. Several other paintings had been moved or were missing entirely, and the suit of armour usually standing next to the common room entrance was also gone.

What was this?

"Password?"

At the sound of a delicate, somewhat high pitched voice, her attention immediately snapped back to the sea nymph, who was now looking directly at with her one hand resting on her scantily clad hip and an inquisitively cocked eyebrow.

"_Hodgepodge,_" she quickly answered of the top of her head and took a step forward, expecting the painting to move aside.

"Wrong," the sea nymph countered and remained firmly in place, still blocking the entrance. "That is not the password."

"What?" Hermione demanded, slightly annoyed. "Of course it is, don't be silly."

"I'm afraid it really isn't," the painting replied snottily. "I can't let you through unless you give me the correct password."

"The correct password _is_ hodgepodge," Hermione snapped at her, quickly losing what little she had left of her patience. "I'm a prefect, I made it up for Merlin's sake!"

The sea nymph eyed her suspiciously. "If you're a prefect, then where's your badge?"

"It's in my room, with my school robes," she hissed through her teeth. "Let me in, I'm in Gryffindor, sixth year! Hermione Granger! Look, where's the Fat Lady?"

"The Fat Lady? She's hanging down by the Trophy Room, where she's always been."

"The Trophy Room? What are you talking about?"

Folding her arms across her chest, it was obvious that the nymph was becoming increasingly irritated as well. "I believe _I_ should be the one asking that question. Do you have the correct password or not?"

Hermione's head was beginning to hurt. This was absurd! First, she was clubbed and left blacked out on the floor, and now this! Obviously someone was going to great lengths just to mess with her mind and even worse, they were succeeding. The thought made her curl her fists in seething anger. She wouldn't stand for this, not for a bloody second, and if she had to search through every single room in the whole castle to find someone who could tell her what in Merlin's name was going on, she would do just that!

"Just forget it," she sneered at the portrait, turning to go back from where she'd come.

"Gladly," the nymph huffed after her, clearly offended by her attitude. "Why are you even doing back here anyway? As I recall, no student is supposed to return from summer holidays before tomorrow afternoon."

Hermione froze mid step, her left foot hovering a few inches above the ground. Then, slowly, she put it down and turned back around to face the painting again.

"What did you just say?"

"I asked you why you were back already."

"From the _summer_ holidays?"

"Yes," the nymph repeated slowly and clearly, staring at Hermione like she was severely mentally challenged, "from the summer holidays."

"But…" Hermione wavered, her head now _really_ beginning to hurt. "It's December 16th."

"It most certainly is not," the painting said, seeming to grow even more offended than before at the suggestion of not being able to tell the seasons apart. "It's August 29th."

It took a few seconds before the meaning of the nymph's words actually registered within her brain but when they finally did, a cold sweat instantly broke out all over her body and Hermione reacted by promptly whirling around to practically fling herself at the nearby windows, pressing her nose flat as she feverishly stared out at the grounds below.

And what she saw nearly caused her to faint.

Where she had expected everything to be shrouded in a thick blanket of frosty white snow just like the last time she had looked outside, she was now instead met by the sight of lush lawns stretching as far as the eye could see. The treetops of the Forbidden Forest were swaying gently in the distance, the before so naked branches now crowned with green leaves. Looking north, she could just barely make out the hollow of the Quidditch pit and the tall golden hoops slightly obscured by the dusk. The evening sky was clear and violet, and a few lonesome stars had begun to emerge here and there, shining brightly in the darkness.

"I have to speak to professor Dumbledore," she managed to force out, putting her palms against the cool glass. "Now."

--

So Hermione ran. She ran as fast as she could, choosing the quickest paths she could think of that would lead her to the Headmaster's Office, continuously being presented with the corridors that looked familiar yet strikingly different, much like the one in the Gryffindor tower had. Doors were in places they didn't used to be, statues, more paintings, and every time she spotted a new deviation, her panic was elevated to an even higher level. And if her brain had been going at a hundred miles per hour before, it was now working at supersonic speed.

Somehow, someway, for some wholly indecipherable, inexplicable reason, she seemed to have been transported nearly nine months into the _future,_ from December to August! But by _whom?_

And _how?_

And _why?_

Skidding around the last corner, she was beyond grateful to see that at least the enormous stone gargoyle guarding the entrance to Dumbledore's office was still standing where it had always been.

"_Sh—sherbert lemon_!" she gasped desperately.

Her feelings of gratitude were quickly replaced by ones of renewed frustration, however, when she realized that apparently, she didn't have the current password for this entryway either. The gargoyle didn't budge as much as an inch.

What now?

Panting furiously, Hermione bent over to rest her hands on her knees while she weighed her options. She couldn't very well stand around until her headmaster decided to come out by himself, who knew if he was even still in his office at this hour? She could be stuck waiting out here all night! And she had no idea where else to look, having never actually been bothered to find out in which part of the castle that Dumbledore's personal quarters were situated.

_Think, Hermione, think!_

Putting her logic skills to serious use, she tried at least a dozen different passwords, from "woolly socks!" to "cinnamon porridge!" and each one turned out to be as brilliantly useless as the next. Feeling as if she was just a few failed attempts more from resorting to physical force, despite how little good she already knew that would do her, she threw her hands up in the air in utter despair.

"Oh, for heaven's sake, just _move,_ you big, dumb block of concrete!" she ground out, exasperated and at her wit's end. "Hocus pocus, _abracadabra!_"

Jumping back in slight shock, Hermione couldn't believe her luck when stone suddenly began grating against stone, and the gargoyle slowly rotated aside, revealing a coiling set of stairs. If it hadn't been for the seriousness of the situation she was in, she would have been amused by the fact that Dumbledore had decided on such a muggle banality for a code word. But there were far more important matters that demanded her attention.

Taking the stairs in what seemed like two long strides, she rushed towards the doors to the office, eager to find the help she so desperately needed. If she really had jumped nine months ahead in time like she suspected, surely her headmaster, not to mention her friends would be glad to know that she was alright after having been missing for so long! They would figure this out together, they would—

For the second time that night, Hermione stopped dead in her tracks, her hand lingering hesitantly on the door knob.

Hang on.

Travelling in time was a fickle thing, she'd learnt as much in her third year. Timelines could be thrown off, paradoxes could be created at the drop of a hat. There were possible complications that needed to be considered thoroughly before she went barging through any doors, making her current predicament known to anyone else but herself.

Suppose she was to find Dumbledore behind that door. Suppose he and Harry and Ron would help her figure out what had happened and find a way to get her back to where she'd come from. And suppose they would, in fact, succeed, what then? Wouldn't that mean that she had already gone back to her own time once "before," so to speak, and wouldn't that ultimately result in a total of _two_ Hermione's in this particular place in time? She could risk ending up running into _herself_, only nine months older!

The potential consequences of such a meeting would be nothing short of catastrophical.

But hadn't the sea nymph in the portrait claimed that today's date was August 29th? If it was, that would mean that even if her concern would turn out to be well-founded, she should still be in the clear for now regardless, as the Hermione of this time wouldn't return to Hogwarts before tomorrow afternoon. Also, if her older self had already experienced everything she was experiencing _now_, Hermione trusted that she - or rather - herself in nine months would be smart enough to avoid running into her younger, time-travelling self at all costs.

With that comforting, albeit also slightly dizzying thought in mind, she took a deep breath and pressed down on the handle, opening the door.

At first glance the office appeared to be empty, and Hermione's heart instantly sank to her stomach. She was already pondering where else she could possibly go to seek help when she spotted a long-bearded figure bent over what seemed to be a brightly glowing globe of some sort in the corner, his face half hidden by shadows. Letting out a sigh of relief, she quickly moved towards him, words instantly beginning to tumble out of her mouth in eager rambling.

"Professor Dumbledore! You have no idea how glad I am to see you, I desperately need your help! Something horrible seems to have happened to me, and I— you are not professor Dumbledore."

Once again finding herself completely thrown, she stared in confusion at the figure who had abruptly snapped his head around to face her the minute she had started talking, and she saw that it was, indeed, not Albus Dumbledore but a very small, much sturdier-looking man with a round face and dark hair. His beard was parted at the middle and tied into two neat little tufts, and he struck her as oddly familiar looking despite that fact that she couldn't for the life of her recall where exactly she had seen him before. Was he from the ministry? A new professor, perhaps?

"Who are you?" the man demanded bluntly, eyeing her in disbelief. "What are you doing in my office at this hour?"

"_Your_ office?" Hermione asked, equally incredulous. "But where's the Headmaster's office then? I need to speak to Dumbledore right this minute, it's urgent!"

Stepping out into the light, the man dusted off his robes, trying his best to look down his nose at her, despite the fact that she was at least a good foot taller than he was. "_Professor_ Dumbledore," he scoffed, "is in his private chambers, I expect. Are you a student? I don't recall having ever seen you before. What are you doing back at Hogwarts so soon?"

"Uh. I…" Hermione faltered while desperately trying to make sense of his words, her previous headache now returning with a serious vengeance. She could only take so much confusion in one night.

Then a terrible thought suddenly struck her.

What if she had actually jumped much further ahead in time than what she had initially thought? After all, the sea nymph had made no comments on what exact _year_ they were in, and she had just assumed that it was 1996. But what if it wasn't?

"Sir," she muttered slowly, feeling very much as if she was going to be sick. "This might sound like an awfully odd question, but…do you think you could possibly tell me what year this is?"

The man's eyebrows rose. "Young lady, if this is some sort of joke…"

"No joke," she croaked. "Please."

"Well," he paused, and the crease in his brow grew deeper as he folded his hands behind his back. "If you must know, then; today is August 29th and the year is 1943. Now, are you going to tell me who you are and what your business is?"

But Hermione couldn't get a word past her lips. She just stared at him stiffly, literally feeling how all colour was drained from her face.

_August __29th, 1943. August twenty ninth, nineteen forty three. Augusttwentyninthnine…teen…_

She hadn't gone ahead in time. She hadn't gone _ahead._

And it was in the very same moment that Hermione Granger recognized the small man in front of her as none other than Armando Dippet, Headmaster of Hogwarts from 1925 to 1956, that her feet finally gave out from under her and she lost consciousness for the second time in a mere two and a half hours.

Or, more specifically, two and a half hours and fifty three years.

--


	4. Chapter Three

_**Ragnarok**_

**Summary:** "It is within the power of each of us to love someone else, to embrace it in all its frightening splendour. It was, more likely, rather his inability to understand all this that became Tom Riddle's ultimate downfall." TR/HG, circa Half-Blood Prince.

**Disclaimer:** I am not J.K. Rowling, nor am I in any way associated with her. I own nothing.

**Author's Note:** And on it goes. Thanks for sticking with me this far, I realize that I'm horrible at updating. Hopefully, with the upcoming Easter holidays, I'll be able to do something about that. Also, I should maybe have mentioned this before but seeing as English is my third language, there _will _be grammatical screw ups and spelling mistakes now and then. I'll try to catch them the best I can, though.

**Chapter Three**

"...in the middle of the night, _completely_ out of it, _very_ oddly dressed, asking what year it is and all sorts of nonsense, and then simply toppling over on the floor with no warning whatsoever!"

"It sounds highly peculiar indeed."

"Highly peculiar is not the word, wholly unacceptable is more like it! I _demand_ to know what is going on, Albus!"

"I can assure you, Armando, I am every bit as much in the dark as yourself at the moment."

"She was asking for you, specifically!"

"Did she now? How very interesting, I am always delighted to make a new acquaintance."

"You mean to tell me that you do not know this girl at all?"

"That is exactly what I mean to tell you, yes, although I imagine that the young lady will be able to inform us how exactly she knows _me _once she- oh, it appears that she is coming to. Perhaps we should give her a little room to breathe, hm?"

Voices that seemed both close and very distant at the same time, first muddled and then gradually more distinct in her mind, seemed to loop an invisible rope around Hermione's wrists and pull at them, dragging her out of blackness and into the light. It took a few seconds before she regained her wits but when she did, a certain sense of deja vu was the first thing that hit her as her eyes flew open and she found herself once again lying on a cold stone floor. However, this time she didn't wake up alone. Two men were staring down at her, one crouching by her side and the other standing slightly bent over her, studying her with both barely contained curiosity and poorly hidden annoyance. But it was the other man, the one who was on his knees, holding onto her hand with a sympathetic look on his face that immediately seized her undivided attention.

The other man was Albus Dumbledore.

Only he wasn't quite. The colour of his hair as well as that of his impressive beard was not the usual mixture of white and grey, but instead a light shade of brown. The half-moon spectacles otherwise permanently perched on his hook nose were gone. His face, although still bearing the obvious signs of age, was not nearly as lined with wrinkles as before; but his eyes, Hermione saw, watery blue and brightly sparkling due to some unknown, secret source of amusement that only he ever seemed to recognize and appreciate, were the same. Completely the same.

And that was when she remembered what had happened.

"How are you feeling, miss?" Dumbledore asked her, his smile mild and caring. "Well enough to stand, I hope?"

"I...think so," she mumbled throatily and graciously accepted his other hand, allowing him to pull her up on her feet. Making a quick, half-hearted attempt to dust off her clothes, she was then led to a small, plush looking chair that had been pulled out for her and gently ushered to sit. Obliging, she pushed her knees together and folded her hands awkwardly in her lap, only to unfold them and then fold them once again, all the while painfully aware that the two men were staring at her expectantly. Obviously, they were waiting for her to speak and she was desperately raking her brain, trying to figure where to begin, what to say.

What _could_ she say? How could she possibly hope to explain who she was, where she was from and most importantly, what she was doing here when she didn't even know the answer to that question herself? She had woken up to a time that was fifty three years away from her own, with no knowledge of how she had gotten there and how she was supposed to get back, and to make matters even worse, she had already been seen by not only one but _two_ people, directly breaking the first and single most important rule of all time travelling. Everything she did from now on, every word she said or movement she made could potentially distort, alter or all together destroy the future as she knew it. She could risk annihilating her own existence. Maybe she already had.

The thought alone was enough to make her queasy with fear.

Unable to dwell on such possible gruesome prospects, Hermione willed herself to remain calm and collected. Panicking would do her no good; if she was to have any hope of getting out of this plight, she would have to be rational. Be rational. Unclasping her hands yet again, she put them in her lap instead, wiping off her sweaty palms on her pants. Systematically, she then began to consider her options.

Obviously, she was still _existing._ If she had already done something that would directly affect her future and herself, it would be completely impossible for her to be here now, in her present form as a result. Therefore, one could safely conclude that she hadn't. Granted, she would have to weigh her next words carefully but for now, she seemed to be safe. Or at least, as safe as a girl could be when she was stuck in the past, a troll's hair away from throwing off the time line at any given moment.

The very second she had followed that thought to end, Armando Dippet unknowingly decided to up the stakes once again. Seemingly unable to bear the waiting any longer, he took a few steps towards her, moving to stand next to Dumbledore.

"Well? Are you going to tell us who you are and what you are doing here?" he demanded brusquely.

"I'm..." Hermione began, then faltered, unsure. "I am afraid I can't...do that, sir."

"What do you mean you _can't?_" the small man practically exploded. "You come barging into my office late at night, you practically _demand_ to speak to one of my professors and then you simply _faint,_ and now you refuse to tell us why?"

"I..." Her eyes desperately flitted back and forth between the two wizards before finally coming to rest on her future headmaster. Right now, he was the only link she had to her future and probably her best chance. "All I can tell you, is that I need to speak to Professor Dumbledore. _Alone._" Catching Dumbledore's gaze, she made a silent plea with her eyes.

_Please, please, please, please._

Armando Dippet was virtually sputtering. "I can assure you, you insolent lass, there will be _no_ such--"

"Headmaster Dippet," Dumbledore cut him off softly, his own, intelligent eyes never once wavering from Hermione's in turn, "with your permission, I'd like to talk to the young lady in private."

Spinning around, he glared at him in disbelief. "What? Albus, this is most unheard of! You can't possibly--"'

"Believe me, I am by no means attempting to dispute your supreme authority as rector of this school," Dumbledore interrupted him again, finally breaking eye contact with Hermione in order to pick it up with Dippet, never once raising his voice. "But for now, I can see little harm in assuming that perhaps, the girl has good reason to be so secretive." Turning his attention back to Hermione, he studied her intently. "These are...dangerous times, after all," he added ruefully.

This seemed to somewhat put a damper Dippet's anger. At any rate, the redness of his face lessened considerably and looking as if he was considering the seriousness of Dumbledore's words, he fell quiet for a few seconds.

"Very well," he then nodded curtly. "You may speak to her alone." The tone of his voice made it perfectly clear that he would expect nothing short of a full recounting later.

"Thank you," Dumbledore replied appreciatively.

Then, at last, but not before casting a final, disapproving glare at Hermione, Dippet turned around and left the dimly lit office, and her and Dumbledore to themselves.

Silently, she watched as the the latter calmly went over to fetch another chair from the far wall. Dragging it across the floor, he placed it in front of her without a word, pausing for a few seconds while eyeing her speculatively. Then, moving down to settle in, he arranged his robes in that familiar manner she already knew so well.

Folding his hands in his lap, he smiled at her. "Well, then. It seems we are alone at last, as you requested. Would it be at all possible for you to shed a little more light on the, shall we say, rather uncommon circumstances of your sudden arrival here at Hogwarts?"

She sighed, overwhelmed by a sense of fatigued despair. "Truthfully, sir, I have no idea where to begin."

Dumbledore raised his eyebrows slightly. "Aha. In that case, why don't you start by telling me your name? Can you do that?"

Hesitating briefly, she then nodded. "Hermione," she answered warily. "Hermione Granger."

"I see," he replied. "Miss Granger, I would by all means be happy to follow the rules of common courtesy and introduce myself properly in return but as it has already become rather clear by now, there is no need for me to do so. We already know each other, or at the very least, _you_ seem to know _me._ Very well, too, if I am not mistaken?"

Hermione nodded again. "I do. We do."

"I sensed as much. I suppose the next logical step would be to ask where we've been so fortunate to be acquainted last?"

"Actually, sir," she reluctantly corrected him, "the next logical step would be to ask _when._"

Dumbledore leaned back in his chair, the expression on his face more inscrutable than ever. "I see."

Hermione was beginning to doubt whether or not the whole thing had been a good idea. Perhaps it would have been better if she had made a dash for the door the minute she had woken up, and proceeded to run for the hills rather than than to break the rules and involve anyone else in this mess? Then she could have hidden from the world as she was supposed to have done from the very start and perhaps, somehow, figured out on her own how to get back home.

Home.

The thought of all of her friends and family currently being as far away as they could possibly get, unable to help her and probably not even aware that she needed them to, either, made her feel very much alone. But nevertheless, sitting here in the headmaster's office with Dumbledore, not taking into account that it would be another thirty six years before they would actually meet, made it all a little more bearable and her feel a little more safe.

Hogwarts _was_ home.

"Sir--"

"Please, if you insist on being formal, call me Professor Dumbledore."

"Professor Dumbledore," Hermione complied. "I realize that what I am about to tell you now is going to sound utterly ludicrous."

The old wizard leaned forward in his chair, resting his hands on his knees. "Oh?"

"Yes. And to be honest, I'm not entirely sure how _much_ I can tell you, or if I even ought to tell you anything at all. But right now, everything seems very, very hopeless and I really can't see any other way. So, here goes." Taking a deep breath, she felt like she was standing on the edge of a bottomless abyss. "Not only have we met before, but we are going to meet again, only it won't be until several years from now. I'm sixteen years old, but I was born in 1979. I'm from the future."

The minute the words had rolled off her tongue, she'd instinctively cringed in her seat, half expecting something drastic or earth shattering to occur, like up becoming down, black becoming white, or simply being blinked out of existence in a fraction of a second. But nothing happened, nothing at all.

She let out a tiny gasp at the relief.

Dumbledore however, didn't appear too deterred by her shocking revelation, his expression remaining unreadable and serious. Slowly getting up from his chair, he walked over to pause in front of the lit fireplace, staring into the golden flames languishingly licking against blackened wood.

He folded his arms behind his back. "1979," he murmured thoughtfully. "If you really are sixteen now as you claim, that means that you have strayed not less than fifty three years away from your own time?"

"Yes. Well, give or take a month or two," she replied, all the while frowning lightly. "Forgive me, professor, but...you don't seem very surprised?"

Dumbledore glanced at her out of the corner of his eye, obviously scanning her attire. Considering the women's fashion of the time, she was bound to look rather strange to anyone who saw her, clad in a pair of white tennis shoes, blue trousers and a thick, maroon-coloured sweater.

A small smile pulled at the corner of his mouth. "I suppose one could say I had an inkling."

Despite the despairingly discouraging nature of her current situation, Hermione was unable to suppress a smile of her own. It quickly passed though, and she once again felt the uneasiness creep into her stomach. If Dumbledore had guessed so easily, how long would it take before Armando Dippet put two and two together also? If he did, or if anyone else did for that matter, the game would be over. But then again, she sensibly reminded herself, young or old, her headmaster had always possessed an unsurpassed flair for thinking outside the box and seeing clear answers where others only saw unsolvable riddles. Perhaps there was still a chance of making it out of this mess unscathed.

"How did this happen?"

"I don't know," she answered sincerely.

"Then let us cling to what you _do_ know," Dumbledore replied, walking over to reclaim his seat opposite her. "Tell me as much as you can, but leave out what you must."

And, being unable to come up with any alternative course of action, Hermione did. She told Dumbledore about how she had been alone in the cold class room, leaving out any parts mentioning Ron, or Harry or Lavender Brown. She told him, _very_ vaguely, about the puzzling conversation the two of them had shared minutes before she had been knocked unconscious by an unknown attacker, and she told him about how she had then proceeded to wake up on the floor in the same class room, only five decades earlier. She told him about how she had argued with the common room portrait, and she told him about how she gone to the Headmaster's Office to look for him, and last but not least, she told him about the utter shock she had been in when she had ended up finding Armando Dippet in his stead.

All the while through, Dumbledore listened intently to her every word. When she was finally finished and sat silently, awaiting his reaction, he got up once again and slowly began to pace back and forth from one wall to another. Anxiously, Hermione watched, wishing he would say something, or do something, anything to let her know what he was thinking. When a few more minutes passed and she finally couldn't take it any more, she decided to speak up.

"What do you think, professor? I mean, how do you suppose I was brought here?"

Looking for a minute as if he'd completely forgotten she was there, Dumbledore stopped and stared at her for a few seconds. Then, seeming to pick up on her desperate grasping for any sort of guidance, he pulled out his wand from the folds of his robes in one fluid motion.

"For the time being, Miss Granger, I have to admit that I am far more concerned with _why_ you were brought here, at this particular place in time," he answered her, promptly lighting every candle in the room with a slight flick of his wrist. Blowing a thin spiral of smoke rising from the tip of his wand much like it had been a matchstick, he pocketed it again. "I reckon that someone who knows as much as yourself, also knows what sort of darkness has infested the magic world these days."

Knowing her history books backwards and forwards, there was not a doubt in Hermione's mind exactly what darkness Dumbledore was referring to. It was the year 1943; the rise of Gellert Grindelwald was, if not fully fledged, then at least already well advanced.

For what seemed like the thousandth time that night, she nodded. "I do."

"Then you also understand the need to be cautious. In times like these, one can rarely afford to be reckless and it seems logical to me that whoever has orchestrated the events that have befallen you tonight, must also have had an ulterior motive for doing so. After all, it is hardly likely that you simply passed out and travelled back in time on your own accord, would you not agree?"

Hermione would. It all felt very implausible.

"So what happens now?"

"Why, you will have to remain here at Hogwarts, of course, until we find a way to send you back to where you belong," Dumbledore said, the twinkle returning to his eyes. "I trust you'll have no objections to that?"

"Quite the contrary, I would be very grateful for that, seeing as I don't really have any other place to go. But what about Headmaster Dippet? What will he say?"

"Leave him to me. In the mean time, I think it would be best if you attempted to keep somewhat a low profile. I got the impression that you are familiar with the rules that apply to time travel and the dangers associated with these, Miss Granger?"

"Fairly," she replied modestly. "I was allowed the use of a Time Turner in my third year to keep up with my class schedule."

"Good, good," Dumbledore said appreciatively, "that means that you are already aware what's at risk. Stay in your room at day, move around only at night if you absolutely must. Avoid being seen at all costs. Right now it will not pose too much of a problem, but when the students return tomorrow it will bepivotal that you adhere by these rules. Will you promise me to do so?"

"Yes, sir, professor Dumbledore. I promise."

He smiled. "Then I trust you."

Hermione smiled back, suddenly feeling very, very tired, like she hadn't slept for years. Which, in a way, wasn't entirely untrue. Stifling a yawn, she didn't even dare think about how late it had to be. It seemed like hours ago when she had first woken up on the class room floor. At the same time, it felt as if an enormous burden had been lifted from her shoulders; Dumbledore would help her. Dumbledore would figure this out.

"You must be exhausted," Dumbledore said, noticing her obvious fatigue. "We should get you settled in so you can rest. Tomorrow, we will discuss further what action is to be taken from here." Putting a comforting hand on her shoulder, he smiled reassuringly. "We will get you home again, Hermione."

Feeling very much desperate to believe him, she allowed herself to be led out of the office and into the dark, familiar halls of Hogwarts. Trailing after Dumbledore as he chose the way, she was finding herself looking forward to the prospect of warm bed and a good night's sleep. Tomorrow, everything would be looking much brighter.

If only she didn't feel like she had forgotten something. Something important.

Barely able to keep her eyes open at all, Hermione didn't even notice when they passed through the Trophy Room on the way. She didn't notice the sparkling cups and mounted medals. She didn't notice the shiny silver plaque attached to one of the largest display cases in the middle of the room, brilliantly reflecting the flickering torch lights. And she didn't notice the impressive engraving finely carved across it.

_FOR SPECIAL SERVICES TO THE SCHOOL_

_Tom M. Riddle_

_June 1943_

If she had, maybe she wouldn't have been so tired after all.


End file.
